How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [36]
“Cats never get too hot,” a voice said behind me.
Warily, I turned around. The guy behind the counter was maybe college age, with hair that was long and dark brown, pulled back from his face into a ponytail, like an artist or something. He said, “They’re desert animals.”
He had a very calming voice. Or maybe it was the music, which was some kind of flutes and drums or something. The air smelled like cinnamon and coffee. “I didn’t know that,” I said, and then I remembered. “Oh, yeah, like Egypt. They were really a big deal in Egypt.”
His smile was kind. “Right.” He was writing on file cards, drinking out of a big ruby-colored cup. “You looking for something in particular this afternoon or just in to browse?”
I shrugged. “Browse, I guess.”
“I’ll leave you alone, then. If you want some help, I’m here, okay?” His eyes were direct, and for the first time all day, I felt as if somebody saw me instead of my belly.
“Thanks.” I wandered around the bins, flipping through the albums for something I recognized. My dad was a big music fan. He collected records from the fifties and sixties, all kinds of rhythm and blues and rock. I saw covers I recognized—Cream and the Rolling Stones and Albert King.
“You like Cream?” the guy asked.
I didn’t know if it would be cool or not cool, but my dad was always saying that Eric Clapton was the best guitarist in the history of the world. But being cool hadn’t really gotten me very much, so I told the truth. “They’re okay, I guess. My dad likes Clapton.”
“How about you? What do you like?”
I lifted a shoulder. Now that I was a few steps closer, I could see his eyes were the color of honey, very clear light brown, and he had that way about him that said he’d been other places besides this. A quietness, a clean and generous curiosity. He was probably a music fanatic if he worked in a record store. “I don’t know,” I said finally, again telling the truth. “Everybody tells me what I should like.”
Something shifted in his face at that. “That’s how the world is sometimes.” His voice was great—not deep but echoey, kind of, as if it came out of the body of a cello, which I’d played for a couple of years. “What’s your favorite record?”
Here was where I should say the Rolling Stones or the Clash or somebody cool, but that would be a lie. I shook my hair out of my eyes. “I don’t think I can pick a favorite. I love Cyndi Lauper and Annie Lennox.” I lifted a shoulder. “And I really love Bruce Springsteen, and …” I thought about it. “Prince.”
His lips turned down at the corners as he nodded. “You have good taste.” He smiled, giving me a little wink. “Maybe not Prince, but the others.” He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, his hands turned backward on his legs, and he narrowed his eyes. He was skinny, with shoulders like a shelf. His shirt was a cream color with thin purple stripes. The sleeves were rolled up on his forearms. “How about Stevie Ray Vaughan? Ever listen to him? Elvis Costello?”
“I don’t think so.”
He came around from behind the counter and went down the aisle across from me. He was old, like maybe even twenty-three or so, but I still felt something funny circling around my spine, like iron shavings standing up all ruffled and alert. I pretended to flip through the records on my side, but I couldn’t have told you one thing in there.
“Here,” he said, and handed me an album. “You can take this home and listen to it, see if you like it.” Then he pulled it to his chest. “You do live around here, right? You’re not just driving through on your way to Texas?”
“I’m living with my aunt this summer.” Almost without my permission, my hands pointed to my belly.
“Exiled, are you?” He said it with a twinkle in his eye, so I could smile back. For the first time all day, I felt like a normal person. I nodded, as if we were conspirators.
“Well, you take that with you, and come in next week and tell me what you think.”
I looked at the cover. Stevie Ray Vaughan. “Really?”
“Trust me.” He grinned with one side